


there's an old man sitting on the throne there saying i should probably keep my pretty mouth shut

by ihaveacleverfandomurl



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Apothecary Aaron Minyard, Blacksmith Andrew Minyard, Fortuneteller Renee Walker, Hurt/Comfort, Knight Kevin Day, M/M, Neil really out here pulling a Jasmine from Aladdin, Prince Neil Josten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihaveacleverfandomurl/pseuds/ihaveacleverfandomurl
Summary: Renee turns dark brown eyes on him, but she is still very far away. Her voice almost seems to echo. “Neither of you are simple, nor will your entanglement be simple, Smith. He carries the world and more upon his back, and your burdens will you lay upon the ground before his feet. Exchange your monsters and bend the knee, Andrew. He is come.”She blinks, her gaze clearing, and smiles, but it is less certain than usual.Andrew bites back a sneer and pulls away from her. “I bend the knee for no man. Not anymore, Madame Fortuneteller.”“Be careful, Andrew,” is all Renee says before he hears the door of his smithy creak shut behind her.Andrew doesn’t believe in fate or palm readings or cards of blue eyed young men.He doesn’t.





	1. sick of all these people talking

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to me it’s been two years since I started falling head over heels for Foxhole Court so here’s a new au and it’s a bday present to myself tbh  
-  
anyway this is a bullshit fantasy semi-old-timey thing, medieval but not and mildly magic… I have a novel I wrote with similar kinda genre and location a while back so I’m trying to slip back into the way I tried to write their dialogues/narration, forgive me if it sounds a lil clunky esp at first  
-  
also obviously the title/chapter titles are from castle by halsey − my own queen − but for this au [I really like this male cover by CORVYX!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6352tM7T8WU) (+ it also has some gorgeous makeup & visuals I highkey wanna do in cosplay damn maybe I’ll do a CORVYX’s Castle!Neil look sometime)  
-  
General TW: Nathan’s abusive. Assume similar warnings for canon will be present to be safe though I’m still working out plot details – I’ll warn for each chapter tho and update story tags as we go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe tries to warn Andrew. Andrew doesn’t listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: In this chapter, there is some minor cutting mentioned, but it’s only to test the sharpness of a blade and not with any intention of self-harm.

I. RENEE

Andrew Minyard doesn’t believe in fate. He can’t, or he’d have to believe fate was a cruel mistress indeed. She’d chewed him up and spit him out, a broken little bird that couldn’t make himself work quite right anymore. Grown into a wolf by necessity, snapping at anyone and everyone around him with sharp teeth.

No, fate is best left to those who can hope for a future. Andrew cannot.

So Renee Walker’s cards, crystals, and whatever-the-fuck-smoke-signal-things – he leaves it to her to make her own living, to wave beringed fingers over her foggy little ball of glass, to tug on her elegant necklaces and smile her mysterious smile as she pores over palms, to read her clients top to tail and tell them to tie twine twixt their toes. She has a past almost as riddled as him, and she is more than able to fight her own battles, a reason he gives her the time of day when they share space. But he never planned to have her read him.

But it’s not like days working as a smith in an only-so-large city are riveting, whereas when the local seer/soothsayer/fortuneteller/witch appears in one’s doorway, looking pale, well… you listen to her and she’ll tell you something mildly interesting, at least. Accurate or not.

“The cards have been suggesting some strange things, Andrew. I have read this kingdom’s future in passing mayhaps a dozen times this past week now and I can only trace it back to you. May I…?”

He only has time to reach to douse the beginnings of the shovel he’d been forming when she’s spreading her deck of glorified playing cards across his bench. He stares down at the ornate rainbows swirling across them all, carefully inlaid with gold leaf in curling patterns. He doesn’t know why she spends so much on the showmanship of it all, but he supposes that’s how she gets all the money to spend in the first place.

“Are _the cards_ supposed to _call to me_?” he finally asks in the driest tone he can muster, when it becomes clear she’s content to stand in silence, waiting for him patiently, like she has all the time in the world.

Her eyes are more serious than usual, barely a twitch of humorous allowance for his disrespect. “Yes. If you would choose, perhaps, three. We can see where to go from there. Perhaps my previous readings will lend to this one.”

Even as contrary as he is to nearly everyone, Andrew draws out a random trio slotted in next to each other. She believes. He will let her believe.

She turns them over, placing the first and second upon his open, calloused palms, holding the third to her chest without looking as she examines the two he holds. Her brow creases, lips pursing, and lays the final card face up in her own hand.

“Andrew,” she murmurs, still spellbound by her own readings. “Your dominant hand.”

He extends his hand further, staring at the ghastly face that grins up at him from the depths of smoke, a corpse on his card, and she takes it away to examine the lines of his palm, gently tracing with a fingernail.

“He is come,” she says quietly. “He will arrive soon.”

Andrew watches her continue to pensively regard his hand, and prompts, “Who.”

“A world shaker. He will rearrange all. He is dangerous, Andrew.”

“Then I’ll kill him,” Andrew says, thinking of the knives he has stashed across his person. Blades crafted from his own sweat and blood, now counted as his own limbs as much as an arm or leg. “Simple.”

She turns dark brown eyes on him, but she is still very far away. Her voice almost seems to echo. “Neither of you are simple, nor will your entanglement be simple, Smith. He carries the world and more upon his back, and your burdens will you lay upon the ground before his feet. Exchange your monsters and bend the knee, Andrew. He is come.”

She blinks, her gaze clearing, and smiles, but it is less certain than usual.

Andrew bites back a sneer and pulls away from her. “I bend the knee for no man. Not anymore, Madame Fortuneteller.”

He goes to pick up his hunk of iron again and is confronted with the card still clenched in his hand. A redheaded young man sitting on the golden throne has his hand outstretched, his vivid blue eyes narrowed, head tilted in challenge.

Andrew flings the card back at Renee and clenches his jaw. “I have work to do.”

“Be careful, Andrew,” is all Renee says before he hears the door of his smithy creak shut behind her.

Andrew doesn’t believe in fate or palm readings or cards of blue eyed young men.

He doesn’t.

***

II. AARON

Aaron shouldn’t have decided his lass was more important than his twin brother. Shouldn’t have wooed his way right out of the house and into his own tiny place down the road in the hopes that he could start his own life worthy of a partner. He shouldn’t have left Andrew, because then he wouldn’t be in this situation. Andrew told him.

“She’s to be wed!” is all the wailing greeting he gets before his spitting image throws himself upon Andrew’s pallet in the corner, his rough handling bursting a bit of straw out of the side.

Andrew rolls his eyes and continues to hammer away at a hunting knife. Katelyn is in love with his brother, but Aaron is still only apprentice to the old apothecary. Katelyn’s parents had been unenthused with her choice in potential husband, and forbade the courting that has carried on anyway, in secret.

Katelyn finally being engaged to someone is no surprise to Andrew, and if Aaron wasn’t a lovestruck fool, he’d be able to see the same. She is the granddaughter of a high ranking palace servant, and despite her life out here among the common folk, her grandfather still brought in a pretty enough penny. Her parents won’t stoop so low, and competition for her hand is high.

“Andrew, you ass, I have no prospects! She was my life! Spare a care for me, will you?” Aaron demands, and Andrew flicks him a cool look. Aaron is clutching Andrew’s threadbare pillow to his chest and his eyes and nose are flushed scarlet, cheeks shining wetly.

“I have no sympathy for a simpleton.”

Aaron throws the pillow at him, and Andrew hisses as the hot metal singes the corner of the already pathetic fabric. Aaron needn’t fret so. The girl will probably fight tooth and nail to return to his side, anyway. Andrew’s certain within the week Aaron will have back his ladylove.

The more simpleton he, to think she will not drive off this suitor.

“I’ll pity you when your own heart is captured someday,” Aaron declares piteously, face flushed in anger. Andrew’s ears redden similarly when he is upset, the traitors. “When you are woeful over your own tragic love, I pray you remember this. Because I will listen to you weep for a lark.”

“I do not weep, brother,” Andrew tosses over his shoulder, still uncaring. _And certainly not for love._

***

III. NICKY

“Sup with us, cousin!”

Andrew tunes out the much taller man hovering over his shoulder as he exchanges a pair of his horseshoes for some loaves of dark rye, his meals for the next few weeks. He needs no charity from his overbearing relatives.

“Andrew!”

“What’s it to be?” Andrew finally hisses, rounding on Nicholas Hemmick as his cousin’s hand lands upon his shoulder. “Shall you leave me, or shall I be leaving your body in the street?”

Nicky smiles uneasily and lifts his hands. “I only wished to see you more often. Is not a hearty meal good enough to excuse having to spend some time with your doting cousin?”

“I may be no butcher, but I know how to gut a man.”

Nicky sighs. “I have no doubt. Perhaps tomorrow eve? Erik will bring home a deer if the nobles fare well in their hunting today.”

Andrew regards the unappealing bread piled high in his arms. Meat of any kind is a luxury indeed.

“I’ll expect no attempts at meddling in my life of any kind,” he says to the bread, and Nicky very nearly whoops before he cuts himself off and skips backwards away from Andrew’s sharp gaze and sharper blades, laughing.

***

Erik Klose is the strapping young squire that Nicky fell madly in love with, as he was apt to do with just about any strapping young man. The difference is that Erik agreed to play the game of tiptoeing around societal conventions of marriage and children with him, for whatever reason that Andrew cannot make out.

They seem grossly, disgustingly happy together.

“He transported the whole thing on his back all by himself! All that way!” Nicky pulls at the front of Erik’s tunic, tugging him down to press their foreheads together and grin into the other man’s face, sunshine personified. Erik smiles back, his hands curling around Nicky’s elbows, the remains of the deer he’d carried home “all by himself” forgotten at his feet.

Andrew feigns vomiting very loudly until they break apart, looking sheepish. But as they move to prepare the meal, he does not prod further as Nicky sneaks a kiss onto Erik’s cheek and as they clasp fingers between plates. When he finishes his meal – interspersed with chatter of Nicky, and stories by Erik, and Andrew barely speaking at all – he bids them good eve and heads for the door. As he goes to close it behind himself, he catches a glimpse of the pair, still by the table, wrapped up in each other and kissing.

He closes the door and clenches his jaw against some kind of dark, angry envy brewing in his stomach. That they can so easily eschew families and society and any care in the world but each other.

That they can simply be together, and happy.

He doesn’t know what Aaron was talking about. He will never have that.

***

IV. KEVIN

Kevin Day glares down at the blade in his hand. “Not sharp enough, Smith.”

Andrew holds Kevin’s stare as he takes the blade and runs it along the pad of his thumb. Blood wells even through callouses, and the knight’s eyes narrow in consideration.

“It’s uneven. I could purchase better than this. A worthier blade for half the price.”

“I rather think you’ll find my swords unmatched, Kevin,” Andrew returns.

“I know you can do better,” Kevin scoffs, reaching for the hilt, but Andrew doesn’t let go. “And you know to call me Lord.”

“Of course, Kevin,” Andrew says. “I wonder why you believe I care enough to do better for your precious swords and shields and armor.”

Kevin doesn’t even grace him with a rejoinder, simply casts a pointed glance around the well-kept manor – Kevin’s estate, rich and important and very clearly a valuable client for any mere city dweller. Nobility didn’t often come to buy from the common folk. Clearly, Kevin thought, Andrew should count himself lucky.

“A flaw in your plans, my lord. I don’t particularly enjoy running after higher ranks bowing and simpering. I’ll make your blades as I make your blades.”

Kevin looks frustrated as again, he moves to take the sword from Andrew’s hands, but Andrew moves out of reach. “I shall pay you, regardless. Return my sword to me, Smith.”

“It is not fit for your stable boy, Lord.” Andrew sheathes it and turns to go.

“I am engaged to hunt with the king soon,” Kevin bursts out. “I will have that blade for the occasion, Andrew.”

Andrew tuts and examines the scabbard. “But Kevin. It is remarkably flawed, do you not think?”

“It is acceptable,” Kevin allows, sourly. “I’ll have your next work for me done with more care, or I will take my coin elsewhere.”

Kevin says as much with every piece he commissions from Andrew. Andrew continues to forge his metal the way he always has.

“Truly? The king will allow such an unseemly sword to take part in his sport?” Andrew tosses the sword to Kevin, who scrambles to catch it and glares yet more.

“His Majesty is a just man who will understand.”

Andrew hums and digs his hands into his trouser pockets. “Indeed? I’ve heard he’s a tyrant to his subjects and cruel to his friends.”

Kevin’s eyes flare with a hint of fear, and he draws closer, gaze suddenly darting about the room for servants. “You should not say such things.”

“Denial, were it forthcoming, would have been provided, Kevin. Is he truly ironfisted?” Andrew snorts, amused.

Kevin looks away, face troubled. “I…I worry. He cares for naught but himself and the strength of his closest circle. Even his son is cast aside, all who stand in his way are…” He shudders and seems to come to himself. “I will not discuss this with you, Andrew. What will come of the kingdom is none of your concern. Your payment.”

Andrew weighs the bag of gold in a hand and considers Kevin’s retreating back. What will come of the kingdom, indeed.

* * *

V. ???

The first time the cloaked figure emerges from the walls of the castle, he limps. The man cuts a small figure, making his slow way to the end of the drawbridge. He stops there, and turns, and looks up at the turrets and banners and blood red coat of arms above the gate, and stumbles back several steps in silence, in awe, in maybe some kind of terror.

Then he turns, and he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the renee magic-y things including her cards bc we’re in ~fantasyland~ sorry @ witchy people I know it’s nowhere near the real thing...i've researched medieval period things but not magic at all lol


	2. sick of all this noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel seeks reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I couldn’t just call the city Baltimore so I renamed it I’m so sorry it’s so dumb)  
(also andrew calling neil a ton of snarky nicknames is entirely self indulgent but I won’t apologize for that one)  
TW: we’ve got a neil who isn’t at a good place in this au, so all the warnings. Physical and verbal abuse, scars, blood, cuts, and bruise mentions, as well as multiple panic attacks. ☹ [Message me on tumblr at foxy-exy](%E2%80%9D) if you need specific warnings on when. (or,, if u just wanna chat about aftg at all please i'm so ready and thirsty for any kind of aftg chats)

The blood pools in Nathaniel’s collarbone, drips down his ribs, collects in the palms of his hands. He is bleeding, and he can taste it, and it _hurts_.

He jumps from his bed so violently that he tumbles out of the four-poster, his shoulder creaking and aching at the impact of the stone floor as he stares unseeingly into the half-dark room. He is shaking, trembling hard enough to chatter, and as he forces himself to look, there is no blood.

No…visible blood.

He tears off his nightshirt, takes a flint and striking steel to his candle, holding his breath in a stupid scramble of unreasonable terror. The light flickers and catches and he looks down at his bare skin.

His torso is mottled with bruises. A bandage winds around his ribs, and Nathaniel carefully pulls it away, but his hands are still shuddering terribly.

Cuts, careful ones, old pale scars, and new wounds, from the week before – he _is_ bleeding. It stings as he presses the slightly stained cloth into the gashes, and he hisses. It’s broken up by his uneven breaths, by his teeth knocking together, Nathaniel cannot make himself calm, he is all alone but what if he wasn’t, what if the man who made those cuts were to hear Nathaniel’s stupid racket, come looking to make more, what if –

Nathaniel shoves his hands into his mouth and bites down, scuttling back until his back hits the bed, trying to breathe quietly. He can’t. He can’t, he’ll hear, he’ll come, and Nathaniel will be –

Nathaniel snatches his nightshirt and crawls back between the sheets, smothering himself with the pillow. He must be silent. He must.

Logically, he knows he is being hysterical, nonsensical − he will not be heard, no one but him ever haunts the corridors at night. But logic has no place in his frantic brain, rushing adrenaline assures him he is trapped, and he will be found.

His eye finds the flame, dancing in the dark room, and he breathes along with its puttering. It is cold, in this room, under the single sheet he pulled over himself, but he is still too stricken to move. The shadows are dark but his candle is lit, and Nathaniel falls asleep watching it waver on.

***

Nathaniel wakes early for his own daily routine, though much of the castle is already up. No one comes for him. He dresses himself with hands that wish to shake, but he does not humor them. The servant he grabs the sleeve of shakes her head when he asks if he is due for any tasks or meetings today, and only then does he allow himself a breath.

He can slip away today. He can indulge himself in the reprieve of a different kind of danger.

He sneaks into the kitchen and pinches some rolls and cheese from a plate, grateful as one of the cooks very clearly averts her eyes from him with a small smile. He thanks god he is never missed at breakfast – a gathering he all too often is known to avoid.

Redressing with the poor, patched clothing buried at the back of his wardrobe is quick work, and Nathaniel steals through the castle, towards the portcullis. It has only just opened for the day, and the drop to the deep, creature-infested moat below is intimidating, considering that the guards do not hesitate to drive suspicious characters off the side.

He has greater chances exiting the castle walls than he has entering, and though the guard on the right gives him a suspicious glare as Nathaniel tugs the heavy hood of his cloak down yet farther over his face, he manages the length of the drawbridge without further incident.

As soon as his feet hit dirt, his knees wobble with relief, the same way they always do. He is outside. He has left the confines of his prison, if only for a snatch of time. It seems improbably impossible − though it has been weeks, perhaps a month or more, since his first venture.

But now…now he has an entire day ahead of him, to pretend away among strangers that he lives amongst them, with only their same worries of livestock, and harvest, and taxes.

The city is quite a ways down the road, a walk that Nathaniel has shortened many a time with frantically pumping legs, but he allows himself the same slow trod of passersby this morning. The air seems to taste fresher, out here, though he knows it is the same air he breathes within the castle walls.

He nibbles at his cheese and bread, inhales his crisp air, and walks the leisurely pace of simply another anonymous laborer on the path to the city.

***

He never knows quite what to do with himself once he’s made it into the bustling crowded streets of Baltimoor, but Nathaniel has always found his mind quite occupied with simply observing.

He’s visited, of course, in state with an entourage, but it never looked like this − full to the brim, busy as hell, with no fresh faces turned up towards the king as a wide path clears for him. Outside of their contented mask presented for royalty and nobility, many Baltimoorians are stamped with tiredness, covered in dirt, bearing the clothing, the hopelessness, the sway backed and wearied manner of destitution.

Nathaniel thinks of the small purse he brought with him, tied to the belt beneath his cloak. He has a plan for some coin today, courtesy of Kevin Day’s unwitting help. But before Nathaniel’s time is up, the rest of that coin…the rest will be discreetly tucked into the palms of the bedraggled children begging by the gate, perhaps.

He does wish his plan was more tangible than wander and pray to catch a glimpse of the face he seeks before he must, inevitably, leave.

Many a day, Lady Luck leaves him bereft and alone, but he thinks she must smile upon him today, because almost immediately and quite ludicrously, he sees a tuft of straw-blond hair as he turns down a particularly busy marketplace street. Tents of patched canvas stretch across pegs hammered between cobblestone, and the buzz of people is louder here − shoppers with more coin than those who beg at the city gates − arguing prices and trades. Nathaniel attempts to shoulder his way through the mass of bodies, but the man with his back to him is packing up his satchel with goods he has just purchased from a merchant and beginning to drift away.

It _is_ him, Nathaniel’s almost sure that profile is the one he’s searching for as the man leaves, and Nathaniel tails desperately.

He knows no name to call out as he darts between strangers, has no familiarity with the man because of course Nathaniel could make no acquaintances here, he only knows the man from spying upon his and Kevin’s meeting, but –

He only has time to yelp as rough hands yank him backwards, twist him sharply and without mercy to slam against the stone wall of a more permanent building – he is trapped in this tiny alleyway far from any help and Nathaniel never thought he would die this way, but perhaps he deserves it for being so completely unaware of his surroundings.

The knife at his throat is wickedly sharp. He is turned once more to face his attacker, and Nathaniel can only gape stupidly at the mirror of the man he was following. No, no, he hadn’t lost sight while he was in pursuit, indeed, _this_ is the man he sought.

“Why tail my brother? Thief? Scoundrel, scum?” the man spits. His dark blond brows are knitted, mouth sneering, and though Nathaniel is taller by a scant few inches, the man’s leather-laced arm where it presses Nathaniel to the wall is absurdly strong.

Nathaniel tries to breathe against compressed lungs and not allow the hum of terror overcome him. He knows this game of talking away a sharp object within a breath of his skin, he has played it many times – a game of appeasing the threat, of apology and assurances that Nathaniel will never upset him again. “I only wished to – to −”

But his words are failing him, he cannot breathe yet again, though he realizes the man has released him. He gasps and falls forward, limbs heavy as he struggles against an invisible assailant gripping his chest. There is no candle to breathe with, here.

He registers a much more solid grip at the back of his neck – the man leaning over him, fingers strong. Not a threat. An anchor.

“If you shall die before I have my answer, I’ll call upon the town witch to resurrect you to have the satisfaction of having your murder be by my direct hand, villain.” But this is not spoken with the same venom as before. A pause, then, almost mildly: “You are able to draw breath.”

_Do so_ is unspoken.

Nathaniel stares at unfocused, uneven, grimy cobbles beneath his hands and draws a terrible, short breath. And another, and another.

“Do you speak, pray tell?” The man sounds carelessly bored now, but his grip remains reassuringly firm atop Nathaniel’s neck.

“Yes,” says Nathaniel, tongue too large for his mouth as he forces his gaze upward. “You are the blacksmith?”

“Aye, and you are the nervous wretch of a failed pickpocket?” The blacksmith folds his arms as he stares down upon Nathaniel, who heaves himself to his feet − determined to present as more than a _nervous wretch_.

“I hoped to commission your work,” he says steadily, withdrawing his purse, and the blacksmith eyes it coolly.

The pouch _is_ rather ornate, Nathaniel notes with a wince. The smith’s doubts that a city dweller would normally possess something embroidered so with gold are justified.

“Upon whose coin?”

“Mine,” Nathaniel insists, hotly. “I am no thief, I assure you. I only knew of your face and your smithy, no brother. I had no ill intentions.”

The blacksmith appears to consider before twisting fingers in the collar of Nathaniel’s cloak, to tug him close, stare, and quite as abruptly release. “Follow then, _well intentioned_ shadow.”

***

The smithy is set apart from much of the city − a weathered, small stone building. Nathaniel still feels the slight bite of the knife at his neck, and presses at it, edgy, staring up at the structure before stepping inside.

Within, the blacksmith leans against his anvil, arms folded and gaze as intimidatingly impassive as ever. When Nathaniel merely stares at him, the smith opens a palm to him with a quirked eyebrow.

Money. Indeed.

Nathaniel places his purse into the man’s hand, who withdraws a gold coin with a slight narrowing of the eyes.

Nathaniel hadn’t been sure of the cost. He’d brought what he could.

The smith appears to be examining the gold for forgery before he closes his fingers around it and returns his gaze to the pouch. “What do you require of me, little fox?”

Nathaniel looks to the stitched fox adorning the side of his purse as well, and attempts to swallow around a dry mouth. The reason that had driven him here, the abhorrent thing he’s seeking. “A knife.”

Brown eyes flick to his. They are unnervingly shrewd. “Not a thief, he says. Yet garbed in poor clothes, hiding his face. But has a rich man’s purse, overflowing with coin. A miniature contradiction wrapped up in a cloak far too large. What use have you for a knife?”

The man can hardly call Nathaniel miniature when he himself is scarcely taller than the scullery maid’s young daughter, Nathaniel thinks sourly. “I wish to protect myself.”

“What is your name, fox?”

“N-Neil,” Nathaniel stumbles over, the truth almost emerging, but the falsehood tasting… surprisingly pleasant on his tongue. He will never like his name, nor his face. The chance to hide them both releases something tight within his chest.

Neil is a creature he can happily play within this city, he thinks. Yes. _Neil_ says, “I do not know what to call you, either.”

“Andrew,” the smith returns as he tosses the purse at Neil’s chest, still full. Neil catches it with confusion.

“You only require one?”

Andrew pushes off the anvil, quick steps carrying him close enough to touch. Neil’s gut warns to retreat but he wars with the crawling sensation, jaw clenched as Andrew inclines his head to peer into Neil’s face beneath the cloak, considering.

“I will ask but one of your coins, if you promise me an answer in return.”

Neil’s urge for flight returns, stronger now. He must tremble with it, or perhaps his eyes glaze, or maybe he makes a quiet noise, because Andrew reaches again to grasp at him – only the side of his hood, this time.

“Who are you running from?”

Neil’s voice is but a whisper in his throat. “My master.” A lie, but not.

He’s always been merely a pawn, after all.

Andrew stares, and stares, and quite suddenly a knife is within his hand – not the one pressed to Neil’s pulse in the alleyway. Neil barely manages to avoid the – handle? − shoved into his gut, only well trained reflexes saving him. But Andrew pays no mind, wrapping Neil’s clumsy fingers around the grip and drawing his hand through a mimed swipe of the blade.

“A weapon is worthless if one knows nothing of its use. I shall forge for you.” Neil blinks, doubtful, and Andrew flicks the blade in a showy twirl before sheathing it once more. His steady gaze still reads as utterly inscrutable, but that in itself is…surprisingly comforting. Anger is visible when Andrew carries it, and he is not angry.

“Return, Neil, and I shall teach you how to use that knife.”

***

Neil can barely bite back an almost giddy smile as adrenaline fuels his quick, retraced steps back to the castle – as he dallies to press the rest of his purse into the hands of small, grimy-faced and wide-eyed children, as he skips past the guards who grab for his shoulders to pull him back but come up empty handed, as he tugs off his disguise back in his room and begins lacing himself up in the tunic he’d thrown on this morning.

He can hold it back no longer as his fingers make quick work of the leather lacings, his mouth curling around a disbelieving laugh. He’s never had a reason to hope for any sort of realistic reprieve, before. A chance for escape that wasn’t a ridiculous, childish daydream. But here it stands, a plot for self-preservation: a promise to return to the blacksmith.

The door opening to admit a grim faced servant with no warning wakes him.

Nathaniel is left feeling quite cold at the set of the man’s jaw, as if doused with freezing water, because there is never any escape from this.

“The king has requested your presence.”

_He knows._

Nathaniel nods jerkily, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand.

_He knows, he knows of the escapes out of the castle._

He finishes dressing himself in a daze, feels the weight of the gold circlet he places on his brow as if it were a death sentence, empty as he goes to knock at the king’s chamber door. He enters when the cold voice bids him to, and stops just within the room. He knows better than to approach.

King Nathan Wesninski has passed much of his complexion to his son. The fiery red hair, the striking blue eyes. It’s why Nathaniel so hates the face that returns his gaze in the looking glass. He has naught of his late mother but her height − can only find his sire looking back at him, and he despises it.

He thinks sometimes he should perhaps steal a blade to take it to his own face, carve those dreadful eyes out.

But that would deprive his tormentor the pleasure, wouldn’t it.

“I will have you here, where I may look on you.”

Nathaniel steps closer, eyes carefully pinned to the king’s feet, but his attention is wholly on his father’s hands. One outstretched in a careless point at the rug in front of him, the other resting on the sword sheathed at his side.

Nathaniel has never had his own sword. The king has a room full of them – it is called an “odd little hobby” of his by the nobility, was called a “sick fascination” by his late wife.

“Look up, worthless whelp.”

Nathaniel meets his father’s gaze. Cannot blink. If he closes his eyes for even a moment, that will be when he is struck down for disobeying.

“Prince Nathaniel Wesninski II. Such a disappointment. I sought you out early in the day, yet nowhere were you ferreted out by the servants. Tell me, what use is a son who cannot be found?”

“I am sorry.”

King Nathan’s eyes snap ice and the sword is unsheathed and laid against Nathaniel’s breast in an instant.

Nathaniel does not breathe.

“Good you are here now, is it not? Do you see this blade, Nathaniel? New. Untested. No blood has spilled under its steel. I have an upcoming hunt, you see, but I cannot ride into battle with an untried blade.”

Nathaniel can no longer see, it seems – his vision has gone hazy as his heart pounds an irregularly fast rhythm within his ears.

He has not been found out. His forays outside of this hell are not known, or at least not circulated.

But his father needs no excuse to exact cruel punishment. He never has. Nathaniel’s body is littered with the testament. His mother body’s lies cold and dead beneath the ground as further proof.

“A shame such a lovely tunic will be ruined. But you are otherwise useless, not even readily available. Perhaps this could have been less extensive, if you had not tried my patience so. Kneel.”

Nathaniel falls, and the blade swings up and back, and then falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, wanting to continue my least popular fics the most? more likely than u think despite the fact that I also cling to any form of validation from my content creation like it’s keeping me alive  
also listen I know y’all thought the Moriyamas were the rulers but I wanted prince neil lemme live my life…riko will probably show his ugly mug later we’ve got Wesninski shit to examine first

**Author's Note:**

> check out my [AFTG tumblr foxy-exy](https://foxy-exy.tumblr.com/)!  
my tumblrs aside from my foxhole court one aren't active butj here's [my cosplay instagram](https://www.instagram.com/kayizcray/) with some aftg cosplay on it  
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if you wanna be a sweetheart and support me and this fic in a completely free way you can [reblog this attempt at a pretty fic moodboard & excerpt right here](https://foxy-exy.tumblr.com/post/187496028593/renee-turns-dark-brown-eyes-on-him-but-she-is)! Or share this trash with your friends! My dudes any form of spreading my work to others is the best fuckin thing lemme tell ya  
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comments are my lifeblood ( ˘ ³˘)♥  



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